The flight to Greater Buffalo International ended with a textbook landing and a sigh of relief from the Deputy Director of the FBI. As they stepped out of the aircraft they were hit by the warmth of the morning, a contrast from the Montana chil.
'Nice day for a sail,' Doherty remarked.
'Fuck off,' Skinner grunted, grimly.
They collected Kosinski's fax, in a white envelope, from the airport information desk, and returned to the rental car in the long-stay car park.
Doherty climbed in and turned the ignition. Nothing happened. 'Shit!' he swore. 'Dud battery.'
Luckily, they were parked close to an exit booth; within ten minutes, an airport worker arrived with a ful y charged start-up pack, and they were mobile once more. Still, they had lost time and were tight for their scheduled water-borne meeting with Jackson Wylie.
The Scot took the Special Agent's map as they set off; as soon as he looked at it, he realised that the drive would be longer than they had anticipated. The airport was around ten miles north of Buffalo, and Bayview, on Lake Erie, where the marina was located, looked to be the same distance to the south. The route that had been plotted for them took them round the outskirts of the city, but nonetheless, the Saturday traffic on Lakeshore was heavy.
Fortunately Bayview was a small community; the signs were poor, but stil the marina was easy to find. They found a space at the rear of its dedicated car park, and set out to find Wylie's cruiser.
The marina was a bustle of activity; Skinner guessed that most of the boat-owners were strictly fair-weather sailors and that the fine spring day had drawn them in droves to ready their vessels for the summer to come. 'Says here that we're looking for mooring number two-seven three,' Doherty muttered. 'The boat's called the Hispaniola.'
'Treasure Island, eh. D'you think our man fancies himself as Long John Silver?'
'Maybe so. Robert Louis Stevenson spent some time in New York State.'
'Ah, come on, next you'll be telling me that John Logie Baird was an 140
American.' Skinner paused. 'Hey, wait a minute.' He pointed along a boardwalk jetty not far from the gateway to the marina, where they stood. ' See that cruiser there; about ten boats along. A big bugger of a thing with an awning on top. There's a guy on deck, and I'm pretty sure that's Jackson Wylie.
'Fuckin' hell,' the policeman chuckled, 'he's got a barbecue going.
He's on a boat, and he's got a barbie lit.'
'You should be pleased then; it means he really ain't planning to sail anywhere.' Doherty glanced at his watch. 'Come on then, let's go see him. It's not too bad; we're only just over five minutes late.'
Skinner nodded, looked down automatical y to check his footing among the ropes and paint-pots that littered the wide walkway, and set out after him. He had taken two steps when, with no warning, he felt his head swim, and his knees buckle. The strangest sensation swept through him; it was as if he had stood in that spot before, had played the same scene in a parallel life. He felt as if he was in a throng of rushing, relentless people. 'Joe,' he heard himself call out, hoarsely.
The American stopped and looked over his shoulder, frowning as he caught sight of his friend's face. 'Bob, you okay?' he asked.
But Skinner's spell had passed, as suddenly as it had come upon "him.
'Yes, yes,' he said, quickly.
'You sure? You look as though you'd seen a ghost.' He walked back towards him.
'For a minute I thought I had; it was… Shit, I don't know. For a second there, I thought I was going in the drink. You know what I reckon it was? The water; the way it moves as you look through the planks. I know I said I don't get sea-sick, but I think I was pretty close to it there.'
'Listen,' said Doherty. 'Go back to the car if you want. I won't tell anyone, honest.'
'Don't be daft, man. I'l be al right.' They waited for a minute or so, until Skinner nodded. 'No, it's gone; I'm okay. Come on. Let's not keep the man waiting any longer.'
He took a step along the boardwalk… and then the whole world turned orange, and red, and black, all in the same instant.
A great invisible force seemed to pick the two men off their feet and hurl them backwards, sending them crashing on to the jetty. They lay there, stunned, until the noise caught up with them, fol owed almost at once by the awareness of great heat. A second explosion sounded; not so fierce, but closer this time.
Skinner propped himself up on an elbow and looked along, focusing his blurred eyes. The Hispaniola was nowhere to be seen; not in its original form. It was at the centre of an inferno; in the midst of which he thought he could see a figure, staggering jerkily around, a human torch, its arms waving in slow motion, and then seeming to sink into itself.
The boat next to it was on fire too; that had been the second explosion, he guessed, since it was closer to them. Its flames, in rum, were licking another large cruiser, even nearer to where they lay If its tanks went up…
He scrambled to his feet, looking at his friend as he did so. Doherty was unconscious, stunned either by the blast or by the force of his impact with the boardwalk. Skinner knelt beside him; grabbed his left arm and his right leg, and in a single powerful movement, stood once more, heaving the American over his shoulder.
And then he ran, as if Doherty weighed nothing at all; as far and as fast as he could. Hearing the crackling of the flames and feeling their heat as they crept towards him, Bob Skinner ran, carrying his friend, for their very lives.
35
Mario had always been slightly in awe of his grandmother. As a child, he had loved Papa Viareggio almost to the point of worship, but Nana had inspired something different in him. She had never been forbidding, but there had been something about her that had marked her out from the norm, an inner strength that at times could make her seem aloof, even from her children and grandchildren.
She had always dealt with the world on her terms, and never in his life had her grandson seen her give an inch in the face of misfortune.
And so he was not surprised when he went to visit her, in the terraced house not far from Murrayfield Stadium that had been her home for sixty years, to be greeted at the front door with a steely look which betrayed not a sign of frailty.
'Well?' she demanded. 'What have you come to tel me, son?'
He did not answer her; instead he kissed her on the cheek, and allowed her to lead him into the living room, where his mother and Aunt Sophia sat, stunned by the loss of a brother and a husband.
'Where are the girls?' he asked.
'Our Paula's in the kitchen, cooking something or other for our supper.
Viola's gone home to her family, where she should be. So, come on, laddie; out with it. Have your policemen caught the evil man who murdered my son?' Her voice was full of controlled rage; he read it at once, for he felt the same way himself.
'We're doing al we can, Nana,' he began, but she cut him off.
'I know that,' she snapped. 'I trust you not to let them do any less. But that's not what I asked you.'
'In that case, the answer's no. We haven't caught him. The truth is, Nana, we don't even know where to begin to look. We've got not a scrap of physical evidence. We recovered the bul et that killed him, but as the pathologist predicted before she did the p.m., it was too distorted for us to have a chance of identifying the gun that fired it. If the weapon had been used in another crime, you see…'
'Ach, I know that, Mario,' the old lady retorted. 'I watch Quincy.' She looked away from him for the first time. 'Can you tell me this? Did he suffer?'